


Gentle Mother

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Forced Marriage, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Longing, Mild Language, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Regret, The Ending That Should Have Been Promised, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: A canon-divergent spin on what might have happened if Sandor had visited Sansa in her chambers during the feast after the Battle of Winterfell.





	Gentle Mother

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Sansan Secret Santa In July event on Tumblr. The prompt was posted by @thedesignateddriver:
> 
> "Gentle."
> 
> From my conversations with @thedesignateddriver about their preferences, I created this "fix-it fic" to change what happened between Sansa and Sandor during the feast after the Battle of Winterfell and to change what happened to Sandor when he returned to King's Landing to face his brother. So, this follows canon but diverges at those points.
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not.
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a perfect curtsey before her younger brother.

“It’s just you and I here in the solar, Sansa,” Bran replies in that purposeful, monotone voice of his. “There is no need for pageantry.”

Rising to her full height, she politely yet stiffly nods at him. “As you wish.” Although her brother is seated in his rolling chair as always - his frailness hidden beneath the layers of furs - his presence still manages to loom over her.

“Do you know why I sent for you?” His eyes fixate on the slight bump of her belly where her hands are currently resting as they are apt to do these days.

Under her brother’s scrutiny, she lifts her chin. She drops her hands to her sides and straightens her back, determined to not show shame.

“I’m not really certain, since your message spoke only in vagaries.”

He scowls at her then, or at least she thinks he does now that his permanent stare prevents him from displaying most signs of emotion anymore.

“It has been brought to my attention that you are with child.” He continues watching her with no expression, leaving her to wonder whether he is upset or simply curious.

A moment passes between them before Sansa looks away. Without answering him, she glides across the solar toward the window overlooking the city still desperate to rebuild after its razing months ago.

So many people died that day.

_So many. . ._

“Does your silence confirm the rumors, then?”

She won’t look at him when she replies. She won’t break down. Not here.

“I should think rumors of a Dornish insurrection would have the Council’s tongues wagging today, not some idle gossip about what I’ve done within the privacy of my chambers.”

“Sansa, this is a matter of grave importance.” Bran’s words sound so stern and disapproving. “This is not the time for impudence.”

“Impudence?” She barks out in laughter. “I dare say that I am far from the one who has shown impudence today.”

“Though they were justified in their inquiries, I’m sorry that the Council treated you - ”

“ – like a common whore?”

Bran’s lips purse together as he inhales and exhales slowly. “That is not what I was going to say.”

As the interchange with the Council spins inside her head, her pulse is thrumming as she wheels around in a flurry of black to face him.

“How could you let them behave in such a deplorable manner? Why did you not speak on my behalf?” When standing before them, she’d wished the ground would’ve opened wide to devour the entirety of the Council as they sat there – a pathetic combination of smug judgement and outright embarrassment – while Tyrion waxed philosophical about the imagined ramifications to the kingdom based on the alleged problem she had created.

Her brother looks away for once. Bran’s eyes, once bright with life, are now so hollow and distant. “I could not defend you if I did not know the truth.”

“And here I thought you could see everything.” She scoffs at his statement. With purposeful, deliberate steps, she walks toward him. “The truth is, dear brother, you didn’t demand I travel all this way just so you could receive an answer to your question. I was brought here so you and your minions could arrange a marriage on my behalf lest I humiliate your beloved kingdom.”

Bran says nothing as she stands directly in front of him now.

“Does _your_ silence confirm the rumor, then?” she asks, the curve of her lips revealing her enjoyment at having turned his words against him. “You expect me to wed?”

“What you do in the privacy of your own chambers is of no consequence to anyone, and rightfully so,” he finally speaks, “yet when your actions produce a bastard, the game changes drastically.”

Sansa flinches as if slapped.

“The Council has agreed that you will publicly claim Tyrion as your rightful husband,” Bran continues. “He will take his place at your side as your Hand and raise your child as his own. It will not be in line to the throne, however, since any children resulting from your union with Tyrion will be the legitimate heirs.”

“How convenient,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Before this arrangement will occur,” Bran adds, “there is one thing you must do.”

Sansa’s pale eyes narrow to virtual slits. “Only one? Lucky me.”

He ignores her rising ire. “You must name the father of your unborn child.”

Unconsciously, her hand flies to cover her belly in a defensive strike. Her stomach starts churning at the thought that she might be forced to reveal who it was who gave her child life. The taste of bile surges in her mouth, yet she chokes it down. She breathes in slowly as she steadies herself before she speaks.

“I will do no such thing.”

Undaunted, Bran plows onward. “The Council has a right to know.”

“I’m afraid you are wrong,” she answers, her long strides bringing her to the doorway in mere seconds. “The Council does _not_ have a right to know.” Defiantly, she turns to face Bran. “I am a queen, or have the people of this city forgotten?”

As she reaches for the handle to make her escape, Bran calls out to her. “There is no other way, Sansa. You and your child could be in danger.”

The weight of his words heavy in her ears, Sansa closes her eyes. She is transported through time and space back to her childhood. She is running through the halls of the castle, angry because Arya stole her doll yet again, while Father, hands on his hips, laughs at Bran and Rickon, who are busy whacking one another with wooden swords. She is watching Robb and Jon and Theon, all gangly limbs and stubbly beards, tease one another, trying to sound mature beyond their years while shooting arrows in the courtyard. She is sitting at Mother’s feet as she brushes her long, fiery mane, listening to tales from her youth in the Vale. She is staring out the small window of her chambers in the wee hours of the night, wishing upon a star for a brave, handsome knight to whisk her away and make her his. She is singing a song for the man hovering over her, unsure of how the night will end as he presses her into the mattress with his massive form.

A tiny wisp of a smile skitters across her face when the memory of that same man, many years later, drifts into her consciousness. This time she is a woman of age. This time they are equals. This time she freely gives away her song while writhing under the weight of his naked body.

Right here, right now, Sansa wants to shout at the top of her lungs that yes, she is in fact four moons along with the child conceived on the eve after the Battle of Winterfell. She wants to tell the world how she’d shamelessly flirted with her unborn child’s father on the night of that feast and how she’d left him drinking alone at his table to ready herself in her chambers in anticipation that he might follow. She wants to scream that her body still aches for the feel of his burned lips ghosting along her heated flesh right before he finally claimed her, body and soul.

Sansa sighs heavily. Such cannot be said.

“On the journey here,” she begins, her eyes opening as her face becomes a mask of indifference, “I’d hoped that your sense of urgency pertained to the forecasted grain shortages this winter, or perhaps it was due to the rising costs of rebuilding the city. I see now how very wrong I was.”

“The people of this kingdom are not as forgiving as those in the North,” Bran says as she jerks open the heavy wooden door. She snorts in amusement when Tyrion all but falls inside.

“Sansa,” Tyrion says after clearing his throat, obviously embarrassed at having been caught eavesdropping. “I was just about to - ”

“Stake your claim?” she interrupts.

Both Tyrion and Bran fall silent.

“If you will both excuse me, I’ve had a terribly long journey and an even longer afternoon. My lord. Your Grace.”

With her head held high, she quickly curtsies to both men before she brushes past Tyrion and exits the solar. Her heart is racing as she breaks into a run, dashing past the perplexed servants as she flees. The sound of her feet pounding on the floor reverberates off the walls as the tears dare to fall. She knows that Bran is right. Even if the North will forgive the transgressions of their unwed queen, here in what’s left of King’s Landing, she knows she’ll find no mercy.

Once in the sanctuary of the guest chambers, she slams the door and dismisses the ladies in waiting who are startled by her sudden entrance. Now all alone, she flings herself onto the bed and allows herself to mourn for the man whose thirst for revenge destroyed their chance at happiness.

“You were my true knight,” she whispers into the darkness of the empty room. “You always were.”

▪◊▪◊▪◊▪◊▪◊▪

“Did ya hear the queen of the north is takin’ herself a husband?” one of the dirty, disheveled men at the pub says to his companions as they sit at the small wooden table in the corner, feasting on their meal paid with ill-gotten wages earned during a hard day’s work shaking down travelers and bullying the locals.

“Nah, she ain’t gettin’ a new one. She’s just takin’ back that bloody dwarf, so I heard,” another man says while wiping ale off his mouth with the back of his hand. “I also heard she’s already knocked up, too, but the brat ain’t his.”

“Now why’d he wanna go and do a thing like that?” the third man asks before biting into a roasted leg of mutton. He continues to speak, chewing his food the whole time. “I mean, she is a right beauty and all – ”

“Aye, she is,” the first man interrupts.

“ – but why the fuck would a man who’s already Hand of the King wanna raise some other man’s bastard as his?”

The second man scoffs like the answer is as obvious as the wide nose on his companion’s even wider face. “Power, of course.”

“So will he be her king or her Hand, then?” the first man wonders aloud to the other two.

“I know I’d be her Hand, alright,” the second man declares, slapping the third man hard on the back. “I’d give her a hand, too, right along with me tongue on that sweet young pussy of hers.” The three men laugh heartily at the vulgar comment. Emboldened by the alcohol, the second man grabs his ale, raising it into the air as he shouts, “All hail the queen in the north!”

In unison, the other two men join him in his toast of derision. “Long live the queen!”

They burst into a raucous round of laughter, which startles several patrons at the tables around them. As the noise finally settles and the idle chatter within the pub resumes, the three unsuspecting men continue to enjoy their moment of merriment at the young queen’s expense. Their laughter wanes, however, when the stranger seated at the bar slams his mug onto the counter with such force that the grimy windows rattle.

“I’ve always hated talkers like you,” he says over the sudden silence he’s imposed. His deep, raspy voice is thick like smoke as it echoes off the thin walls.

A nervous energy descends upon the pub when the stranger rises to his feet and stalks toward the table where the three men sit. Watching him approach, their eyes widen in awe while sizing up their self-appointed opponent. He’s ridiculously tall, his head almost scraping the roof of the pub. He’s almost as wide, too – not heavy, but massive – like a brick wall born of flesh. And though they can’t quite make out his face thanks to the black hooded cloak he’s wearing, in the pits of their stomachs they know it’s just as terrifying.

The three men look at each other, unsure what to do next. They know they should stand down, but after three rounds of ale, their senses are dulled just enough to make the second man believe the three-against-one odds are stacked in his favor.

“Whaddya lookin’ at?” he spits in challenge.

The stranger says nothing for a few beats before he speaks again.

“Three dead men if any more words about my queen come pouring out of your cunt mouths.”

Blinking hard at the blatant threat floating in the air between them, the second man turns to his crew for support. He finds none. The third man’s mouth is gaping like a surprised fish while the first man looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“I know him,” the first man says in a whisper while violently pointing at the stranger now turning to face him.

“And how the fuck so?” the second man barks, still not comprehending the gravity of the situation unfolding in front of him.

The first man gulps. “I used to work for the Lannisters years ago before the city went and got itself destroyed. He’s. . .he’s the Hound.”

“The Hound?” the third man gurgles. The mutton leg clangs against his plate when it drops. “Ain’t he supposed to be dead?

The stranger snorts. “He’s dead, alright.” Pulling aside his cloak, he gives them an eyeful of the enormous sword dangling from his leather belt. “He died in King’s Landing right along with his monster of a brother, thanks to the dragon bitch and her fire-breathing pet.”

Panic overcomes two of the three men when the stranger’s huge hand moves to rest on the pommel, but the second man, tipsy from drink, is determined to hold his ground.

“’Course he’s dead, you bloody gits!” he shouts at his two frightened companions. “Quit pissin’ yourselves!” Returning his attention to the stranger, the second man narrows his eyes in defiance. He scoots his chair backward in a rush, the harsh sound of wood scraping wood ringing in the air. The entire pub is watching as he jumps to his feet and jerks his own sword from its place of rest.

“Fuck off,” he says with a snarl, poking the stranger square in the chest, “or you’ll be sorry.”

As the stranger – still as a statue – casually lowers his head to glance at the sharp steel pointed at him, a gleam of light is reflected off the exposed bone of his jaw. His burned lips twitch just a little when the first and third man gasp in horror.

“It’s not me who’ll be sorry,” he vows.

When the stranger throws back his hood, the second man’s eyes widen in shock. His hands tremor in fear as his brain tries to process what he sees. Before he can react, however, the stranger smacks away the sword like he’d been holding one made for a child. The stranger grabs him by the throat, effortlessly lifting him off his feet with only the one hand. The other two men at the table, now shrieking like young girls, bolt from the table and sprint out of the pub as fast as their feet will carry them.

“Do you want to live?” the stranger snarls over the screams and shouts from the terrified patrons now cowering in the pub all around him.

Gasping for air, the second man claws and scratches at the enormous man’s gloved hand, desperate to beg for his life. He tries to nod, but the pressure around his throat is too great. He wonders how long he will last like this. As quickly as he’d been hoisted into the air, however, he is dropped to the floor at the stranger’s boots. Unable to breathe, he clutches his throat, wheezing as his airway opens once again.

“Tell me everything you know about the queen and her child,” the stranger continues, “and you just might see the sun rise.”

▪◊▪◊▪◊▪◊▪◊▪

“You’re beautiful as always,” Arya says while the handmaidens are busy plaiting her sister’s fiery locks.

Sansa, who is seated in front of her dressing mirror, meets Arya’s eyes in her reflection. “Thank you,” she replies softly.

Arya nods then looks away, clasping her hands behind her back before once again pacing the length of the room.

As the handmaidens continue to fuss over their queen, Sansa watches her younger sister through the looking glass. Arya, always a restless spirit, resembles a caged beast here in the confines of Sansa’s chambers, so ready to return to her life of adventure. At times, Sansa can see glimpses of the young girl she once knew hidden behind the icy glares and snippy witticisms which Arya is fond of displaying at court. Her strength and her candor, though, are a refreshing change of pace to say the least.

Sansa smiles a genuine smile then – something of rarity any more – while she continues to study her sister. She’s certain she’s smiled more in the few weeks since Arya has been home than she has the entirety of the last seven months combined. When she’d written to Arya all those months ago, she hadn’t expected her sister to jump on the first ship back to Winterfell. At best, she’d hoped that in time, Arya would learn to forgive her for her transgressions. Not with Sandor – what happened between them was something for which she’d never feel ashamed – but for agreeing to claim a Lannister as her husband once again. To her utter amazement, Arya had not only accepted her older sister’s decision, but she even went so far as to promise her that there was nothing to forgive in the first place.

Now completely dressed, Sansa rises to feet. One hand rests on her belly, swollen with the child growing insider her, while the other moves to her waist for support. She takes one last look at herself in the mirror, her ginger brows furrowing together as she drinks in the vision before her. She’s encased in a hideously ornate red and gold frock which Tyrion presented to her last month. It is far too revealing and gaudy for her tastes, the depths of her cleavage on full display while the richness of the embroidered fabric and the splendor of its jewels make her cringe.

“It’s time, your Grace,” she hears one of her handmaidens tell her.

Still gazing upon her form, Sansa wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole affair which is about to unfold. She’d begged Tyrion for something small – a tiny, private event where only friends and family would attend. Instead, he’d invited every man, woman, and child who had breath in their bodies to come witness him taking his side by Sansa Stark, the Queen of the North. And by the looks of how lavishly the Great Hall had been decorated, he’d spared no expense, either.

“May I have the honor, your Grace?” Arya asks as she offers her arm to her sister.

Sansa grins as she accepts. She follows Arya as they exit the chambers.

For a short time, the two sisters are quiet as they make their way to the Great Hall. Before too long, however, Arya inhales sharply.

“I’d hoped that Jon would arrive in time,” she says through a heavy sigh.

“He’ll be here soon enough,” Sansa replies, patting Arya’s hand with her own.

“When I do lay eyes on him, though,” Arya continues, her dark brows knitting together, “he’ll regret not having been here for you today.”

Sansa can’t help but laugh as they approach the wooden doors to the Hall. “It is a long, arduous journey from The Wall. Let us try and be patient.”

Arya snorts but smiles. “Ever the peace maker.”

In silence, Sansa’s lip curve at the corners, though her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

As they come closer and closer to the Hall, the music suddenly shifts to signal the queen’s arrival. Involuntarily, her whole body stiffens now that the time has come. The weight of what is about to happen presses on her once several servants jerk open the doors and bow before her. Inside she sees what looks like over half of Winterfell and King’s Landing combined, all of the guests pivoting in their seats to catch a glimpse of the bride so far along with child.

“Are you sure about this?” Arya whispers.

Sansa swallows hard and shakes her head. “No, I’m not. . .but let’s get on with it, shall we?”

With slow, purposeful strides, she marches alongside Arya as they make their way toward the altar. She bites the inside of her cheek to refrain from laughing the closer she gets. Bran is sitting near the front, his blank expression plastered on his face as always. Tyrion looks like a dandy standing there all groomed and polished and stuffed inside his expensive fineries. By his side stands Bronn, haughty and self-satisfied, who is eyeballing her in that way of his which always makes her skin crawl. Then there is Ser Brienne, so tall and regal in her shiny gold armor, standing guard with her gauntlet resting on the pommel of her sword.

“My lady,” Tyrion says when they finally reach the end of the aisle. He nods toward Arya, who is offering him Sansa’s hand.

“If you so much as touch a hair on my sister’s head without her consent,” Arya growls through a forced smile, “you’ll find your entrails hanging from the turrets.”

Tyrion clears his throat. “So good to see you as always, dear sister.”

While standing before the septon, who is now droning on and on about the sanctity of marriage, Sansa loses herself to the memories of the only man she’s ever loved. She remembers her true wedding day. It was the night of the Blackwater, the night she’d clung to his blood-stained cloak which he’d left behind, the uncertainty of their future looming over her. She was wedded but not bedded that night since the consummation of their union would have to wait until they were both older and wiser. And though they’d only shared one night of passion before he’d risen with the dawn and ridden off to face his demons, she is thankful for the living reminder of their love which will arrive in just a few short weeks.

She closes her eyes, willing herself not to cry while the septon instructs Tyrion to remove his cloak. Her heart is aching for the man she will not see again in this life. She promises herself that she will think of him when she is left alone with her lord husband tonight.

_“I love you,” he murmurs into her ear as he slips inside her for the second time tonight. “I always have.”_

_“And I always will,” she replies. When he lowers his lips to her neck and sucks a bloom there, she gasps in pleasure. She knows he’s leaving his mark on her for all to see, but she doesn’t care. It will be a visible reminder that she belongs to him and only him now._

Sansa’s reverie is broken when she hears muffled shouts on the other side of the wooden doors of the Great Hall. A giant clash and clatter ring in the air, several thuds and screams wafting inside.

Something is happening.

Something violent is happening.

“Stop where you are!” she hears one of the Queensguard yell.

“You can’t go in there!” another shouts.

“Drop your sword!” yet another commands.

Stunned in silence, Sansa watches the chaos unfold. Her brave sister draws her sword and sprints down the aisle straight toward the ensuing danger. Ser Brienne hollers at her men as she steps in front of Sansa, pushing the queen behind her while also drawing her sword. In a whirlwind of armor and steel, an army of knights surge toward the altar, all surrounding Sansa and Tyrion like a human shield. As wails of agony begin to drift into the Hall, the wedding guests, their panic rising to a fever pitch now, cry out for deliverance from whatever evil lurks outside those doors.

Sansa wants to say something – anything – which will comfort the people, but she knows all too well that what she says will fall upon deaf ears. She’s heard that there are rumors running rampant about a curse which haunts the Starks on their wedding day.

_Perhaps those rumors are true after all._

Just as Arya closes the distance between her and the doors, the commotion outside the doors ceases in an instant. Sansa’s eyes widen in shock when the heavy, cumbersome wooden doors are easily shoved open by a very tall man in a hooded black cloak.

Although the stranger looks at no one but Sansa as he stalks toward the altar, when he passes by her he gives a slight nod to Arya, whose face morphs from disbelief to delight as she lowers her sword. As the stranger approaches closer and closer, he holds his sword loosely in his giant hand, allowing it to hang as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He flings aside his hood as he continues to walk, his burned lips curling when he hears the litany of startled gasps and shrieks coming from the crowd. Before he can make it to Sansa, however, several knights charge him. Silently he stops where he stands to surrender himself to whatever fate his queen commands. He lifts his arms out by his sides and holds them there as he drops his sword to the floor.

Sansa releases a breath she’d held the entire time. “Stop!” she roars across the Hall as the knights surround the uninvited but most welcomed guest. “Stop in the name of your queen!”

On her command, the knights halt in place, their weapons still drawn and ready to strike.

“Queensguard, hold position!” Ser Brienne shouts at her men. Immediately they lower their weapons to their sides.

Sansa is frozen in place, unable to move. She thinks she might be dreaming, and if so, she doesn’t want to wake.

“Sandor?” She knows it is him, but she asks the question any way.

“Aye, it’s me, Little Bird,” he rasps in that matter-of-fact way he’s always spoken to her.

Arya, who has sheathed her weapon and has walked toward the gaggle of men surrounding the huge one, smiles up at him. “I can’t believe it. You’re alive!”

“Sorry to see me already, are you?” he scoffs at her fervor though his eyes remain fixated on his queen.

“I don’t understand. . .” is all Sansa can manage as she stares in shock at the man she thought gone forever. “Arya told me. . .you. . .the fire. . .”

“After she left,” Sandor begins, his sad gray eyes locked with hers while he speaks, “I got to thinking. Might be I ought to take my own advice.”

As the star-crossed lovers stare at each other, no one in the Great Hall moves. No one utters a sound. They are completely transfixed by the scene unfolding.

“So, I walked away,” he continues. “I walked away and left him to die in the flames once and for all.”

“Then why didn’t you come back to me?” she shouts. Her joy is mingling with her rage at present now that she knows he’s been alive this whole time but never let her know. “Why did you let me think you were dead?”

“I thought you’d be better off without me,” he answers flatly. He looks away for the first time then, glaring hard at his boots.

“Better off?” She clutches her belly, willing him to look at her, but he won’t. “How can you even say that?”

“Because I am nothing but a killer, that’s why.”

“You’re more than that and you know it!”

He inhales and exhales slowly. “I didn’t till I heard about what I’d gone and done to you,” he continues, finally lifting his eyes. He meets her gaze, but then lowers his to where her hands rest.

Her anger cracks. Her voice trembles when she speaks. “And what do you think now, then?”

He swallows before he lifts his eyes and stares into her very soul. “I think that the world might be built by killers,” his words harkening back to their conversation long ago, “but I’ll burn in the seven hells before I let our child become one.”

Sansa’s hand flies to cover her mouth. The anguish and the sorrow and the shame swirling around inside his voice leave a fissure in her heart. He thought himself unworthy of her. He thought he was not good enough to be by her side, queen or not.

“As touching as this little display has been,” Tyrion says, interrupting the silence, “I do believe that you were in the middle of your wedding, your Grace.”

She is startled by Tyrion’s words, but when her head snaps toward him, she realizes his intent. He bows before her, and rises to his small feet. He looks down the aisle where Sandor still stands surrounded by guards.

“Come, good ser,” Tyrion calls out to him. “You’re late.” He waves for Sandor to come to the altar.

Sandor snorts as he shoves his way through the Queensguard. “Not a ser, imp.”

“You will be after today, I’m afraid,” Tyrion jokes as he steps down from the altar to make room for Sandor.

As she stands now next to the love of her life, Sansa smiles from ear to ear when Sandor, shy and awkward, raises his huge hand and gently rests it on her belly. She covers his hand with her own two, grinning at him when the baby kicks.

“Septon,” Tyrion calls out from where he stands next to Arya and Brienne. “Continue.”

When the stupefied septon commences the ceremony once again, Sansa says a prayer to the old gods for bringing her husband home to her.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows. Let them know a better day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @thedesignateddriver for being the inspiration for this work. I hope that you've enjoyed this one - it was amazingly cathartic for me to write! And to everyone else who've stopped by to read this tale, I hope you enjoyed yourself!

**Author's Note:**

> "When I let go of what I am, I become what I want to be." - Lao Tzu


End file.
